Cream Tea Anyone?

18 August 2013
Story #698

R. Linda:

(Note: Not all English people are like the couple in me story. Many nice, upstanding English people go through their lives the best way they can. In all nationalities, there is always the minority that seems to fill up on self-importance to the extreme and so lose sight of the varieties of people in the world that can only add to the broadening of their horizons. There are those minorities that hold prejudice close, and maybe there is a feeling of inferiority and fear that they do so. Every once in a while, we come across someone like that, and it is all we can do to not degrade ourselves to sink down to the level that we so detest. So it was recently with meself.

After a rather complex discussion and an angst-filled adventure in the home of an English couple, I was somewhat dumbstruck that I came out unscathed. It all started when Tonya was at a school conference night at the beginning of the school year. Her kindergarten was open for parents to come and look at some of the "projects" the wee ones had done, basically to ask any questions they had on curriculum and how the little darlings were adjusting to school life.

That sounds all fine and good, it does. Still, an English couple, newly arrived on American shores, were most interested in how the kindergarten was run and how their wee William was adjusting to other children who just happened to have American accents. It seems (Tonya was told) he has trouble with his American nanny's accent and cannot understand a word she says. It seems he is misbehaving. We later discovered the "American" nanny is from St. Thomas, the American Virgin Islands.

Tonya immediately knew who wee William was because, as she told me later, "he is a handful and then some." She said he's very devious in taking the other children's playthings or messing up a drawing some other wee person was working on just because he thought he could get away with it. He loves eating clay, in particular! And because he is an attention seeker and an only child, he is a bit spoilt. You think? And, he can speak in Calipso English like he's from the islands. Hum, wonder where he picked that up? Can't understand nanny, me foot!

During the school year, Tonya saw a lot of wee Willie's mum since the little troublemaker could not behave. The woman started pushing for a friendship between herself and my wife. As annoying to Tonya as Willie's behaviour was, she put up with it for his mother's sake because she felt the woman must have a difficult husband. She had met him once at a conference and didn't care a fig for him. She said he was stuffy, arrogant, and full of himself, and he was an older gent married to a much younger wife, with not much patience or tolerance for wee persons, like young William. That first-hand knowledge threw a new light on William. Tonya tried as she might to be more tolerant (to a degree) of why Willie did what he did to disrupt a class of eight students.

I ignored the talk over the dinner table on this subject. I have two wee troublemakers of me own after just adding a third. I didn't need to hear about another. Well, as time went on, the two women accidentally would meet at the market or at the library (we do live in small-town, U.S.A.), and so the woman decided to take the blossoming friendship one step further and ask Tonya to go out for luncheon, something Tonya didn't want to do, mix business with pleasure. However, she felt somewhat pressured into it and sorry for the woman, so she caved. This led to "You must bring your husband over to meet mine. I'm sure they have a lot in common. Arthur lived in the Holywood section of Belfast for some years." This was said by Mrs. English Person to me American wife, who blinked several times at the comparison, thinking nothing could be further from the truth.

"I cannot think what he and I have in common," I told Tonya upon hearing of this invitation.

"He had a tour of duty in Northern Ireland when he was in the army," Ton said brightly.

That gave me pause.

"Oh yes?" Said I.

"Janet says he was there for about six years. Saw a lot of the troubles up close and personal."

"And when was that exactly?" I asked, my interest peaked.

When she told me the years, it confirmed what I thought when I heard the words army, Northern Ireland, and I thought college years, barricades, and generally, me being in the wrong place at the worst times.

"How old a gent is he?" I asked, thinking he had to be quite a few years older than me. He was a military man when I was in college, so at the very least, he was, by my estimation, four or five years older, at the very most, ten. I knew he was a ranking officer from what Tonya said, so he must have had his bit of schooling, and instant officer was the result.

"Oh, I'd say he's about ten years older than his wife; she's our age." Tonya verified.

"Probably one of those soldiers hit me over the head for trying to get through a barricade to me class at college," I said cutting the fool. "There was a wee bit of riot going on, and I was late for class. The only quick way was through the barricade, and people were fleeing through it. I was always one of the last. I got a smack on my head from one of the soldiers." I thought that said it all, but that was entirely lost on the wife. She blinked, so I went on. "He probably was the one who hit me."

"Don't be ridiculous, I don't think officers wield batons. They point with them." She said, staring at me like I had lost me mind, her face wearing an amused smile at how clever she was.

"Probably the one told them to do it." I snarked back. "I'll know when I see him," I said smugly like I could remember. I just didn't want to go to a tea!

When the appointed day came, I was informed that another newly arrived couple from Boston was also invited. I reluctantly dragged myself to the "cream tea," having little choice.

The home of our host and hostess was an old antique Victorian, simply charming from the outside. The inside is typical English decor. The walls were gold with plum trim in the lounge, and then a muted red was in the dining room. The furniture was overstuffed in cottage style with big flower prints and a display of a million pictures on the piano. The mantelpiece was full of ceramic knickknacks and more jammed on tables. In a typical English home, you can't move for the clutter. Have I told you this kind of decor makes me claustrophobic? So afraid my big self will break something.

We were ushered into the kitchen, where most of the walls are original wood—very pretty—but on the walls were pictures of dogs wearing English uniforms and what-have-you. Winston Churchill graced the shelf between the cabinetry, and a picture of the Queen in full regalia was over the table. For all intents and purposes, I felt like I was in England. And it was raining!

Mister English Person had a fine clipped moustache across his thin upper lip, a sandy blond peppered with ash grey. His hair was the same, cut fine, and he had the military bearing of a retired colonel, ramrod straight posture, clipped movements, the whole nine yards. All he needed was his uniform. And he was a colonel! He had all his ribbons and medals in a display case where you stare at them from the kitchen. I was later shown millions of photographs of him in his military dress reds with lots of braid and medals. I acted impressed to make the wife happy. As for Mister English Person, I reacted as he thought I should. Yup, I can act when I need to.

He and Missus English Person seemed impressed that I worked for a newspaper. Who knew? It was a "treat that the Irish have pulled themselves up by their bootstraps, made something of themselves, and learned to read. Jolly good." Yes, this was said as I sat down at the kitchen table. It took all I could to not get up and leave after punching him in the moustachioed lip, but for the wife. Instead, I said, "Yes, amazing, we have achieved reading and writing in such short order." Both my hosts looked at me as if not sure I was pulling a jape, but I smiled big, and it was swept away with the scone crumbs. The other couple found it funny and laughed nervously; right out loud, they did. Well, okay then, chalk one up for meself! Did I tell ya their last name was McGee? Yes, from County Cork originally. They had lived in Boston for five years and moved with his company up into the wilds of New Hampshire. An electrical engineer it is remarkable, considering Mr. English Person thought County Cork only recently got the electric light bulb.

I tell ya!

As you can ascertain, we were in a downward arch in conversation, but then it all stopped for a glorious few moments when warm, delicious-smelling scones were placed on the table. We were about to embark on an English institution: afternoon tea! What could go wrong? Oh, lots could. If you aren't an English person, things can go pear-shaped quickly. There are rules to teatime, especially when you are invited to partake of this English pastime with English personages.

Mrs. English Person asked, "Devon or Cornish?" Usually, the women are asked first, but they were talking, so I was up first to not disturb them.

"Cornish, please," I said as she laid a nice, warm, plump scone on me plate and passed the butter.

She asked me wife which she preferred, and Tonya looked totally confused. To be different, I suppose she said, "Devon," just to see what would happen. A plump scone was laid on her plate, and the clotted cream and strawberry jam slid over to her. The other couple, as clueless as me wife, said, "Devon?" as if a question and shrugged, and our hosts both opted for Devon as well. I was the only Cornish holdout. There's always one; you know he just has to be Irish!

"I could never understand how Cornwall makes itself out to steal Devonshire's most noted treat." Mr. English Person muttered in his clipped way through a stiff upper English lip.

"Neither of you from Cornwall, I assume?" I asked, buttering my scone.

"Oh no, Arthur is from Windsor, and I am from Wells." Mrs. English Person said, voice full of snobbery like I should have known.

He probably lived in the castle and you in the well? I wanted to snipe, but I behaved.

"Let's face it," I said, still buttering, "No one who is anyone is from Cornwall." I chuckled, and so did Mrs. English Person, until she saw the look of disapproval her husband was giving her. He probably has distant relatives there. Who knew?

Then, with horror, he watched Tonya, who had sliced her scone correctly in half, but she made the horrendous faux pas of slathering her scone with jam and then dropping a dollop of cream over the top. I actually heard Mrs. English Person's intake of breath at that.

But wait, it got better; the other two Irish persons were just as moronic; they did the same, jam first, cream second, AND they put the two pieces together as if they were eating hamburgers.

We three sat there watching this display of disregard for British tradition. They had strained horror on their faces, and I was totally amused. And the only reason I knew how to eat a scone is because I was not a culchie from the south of Ireland, but from the more metropolitan (and I choke on that word) world of Northern Ireland where there were a lot of English persons running around in uniform arresting Irish persons and drinking tea all at the same time. Okay, I'm sort of joking.

Mrs. McGee put her burger-like scone down and smiled nervously, thinking rightly something was amiss. Not a word was said. I buttered me scone, and himself set the cream on his scone and topped it with a drop of jam, as did the wife. They then took the bottom half of the scone and took a teensy bite. Tonya still had notta clue but followed suit, but with a bite, a dog would take out of a dog biscuit, large and drippy jammy, all over the plate. I was so proud.

To add insult to injury, she asked Mrs. English Person for cream for her tea. OH, my goodness, me! Well, chalk THAT up to being an over-indulged American person! The cream was taken with raised eyebrows and watched closely as it was poured into the teacup; not only hers, but the other two followed suit. I thought Mrs. English Person was about to go into a frothing fit, but somehow she maintained her composure by getting up, going over to the kitchen window with her back to us and gathering her wits to return with a forced smile.

Americans are used to cream in coffee and cream in everything, including tea. Ireland is so overrun with American tourists that it has adopted this habit. Just the staid Brits cling to their milk!

"Okay, something is wrong, what is it?" Tonya asked, aware she was doing SOMETHING out of the English ordinary, what exactly, she had no clue. But nothing was said, as is typical in English households. If a guest makes a blunder, you try, try, try to ignore it and say nothing, keeping that stiff upper lip, but when they are finally out the door, you turn to your significant other and say, "OH, of all the bloody nerve! Did you see that? She has no bloody manners!"

So Tonya being Tonya, couldn't help herself any longer with the looks, so she asked outright if there was a technique for eating a scone and drinking tea. There! She asked it outright and directly. They had to answer.

With much clearing of throats and tolerating smiles in her direction, Tonya must be a poor brain-damaged thing. Mr. English Person began to explain the various "teas" found in English households, from high tea to cream tea to plain tea.

"Never served with cream, milk always." He said, looking down his long nose.

"Cream tea doesn't mean cream in one's tea. It means the clotted cream on one's scone." The Mrs. was quick to add. "And there is a proper way of eating a scone. You heat the scones, cut them in half,   put on the clotted cream, just a smidgen, and then, put the jam over that, just a tiny bit. You don't close it like a burger, that would be considered crass. (Quick glance at the McGees here.) Start with the bottom half first, small bites so you don't leave too many crumbs."

"Alright, what is Cornish?" Tonya was interested and not insulted, but she's an American, she didn't know to be offended by the condescending tones.

"Clotted cream is a Devon product, and when serving scones, one always asks if Devon is preferred or Cornish. Cornish Cornwall persons prefer buttering their scones, so that way of eating a scone is called Cornish." Mrs. smiled, proud of her explanation.

Ton is always full of the devil, and I thought she was taking all this too well when she turned to me and said, "And scones in Ireland?"

"Oh well, thot be a whole other biscuit," I said with a big smile as Irish as I could. "Ya see dere Tonya, we don't have scones we have onion and potatoes boiled togeter in milk and thot be our afternoon tea!"

I was joking, but Mr. and Mrs. English Persons were not amused. They forced a laugh, knowing that sort of thing was long ago, but for the two other Irish persons, it wasn't for some strange reason, which made me think electricity HAD just recently come to County Cork. Mrs. McGee patted me on the arm and said, "Oh, that is so sad when that happens."

"Must be a lot of rocks in Country Cork," I thought, sinking lower.

What was sadder was that Mrs. McGee had no sense of Irish history or how to insult British hosts over tea! I don't think the McGees had ever encountered real English people before, living down south and all, tucked well away in a deep corner of County Cork without lights! Anyway, it was a silly afternoon of British traditions and a nerve-wracking afternoon for yours truly, who was quite sure that Mr. English Person was not taken with me quips. He did look at me like he was trying to place where he knew me, probably some detention centre where he'd put Irish persons on the rack -- only kidding. I wanted to say, "Wasn't that you, on such and such a date, hit me over the head at the barricade on such and such a road when all I was doing was trying to get to me class at university to learn how to read?" But I said nothing. I was bloody tempted. Yes, I was sinking to the "stupid" level because I was getting angry at the slights coming out. Even if those slights were unconsciously given, they were getting to yours truly.

The McGees had to leave early because they had a dance recital to attend, which we all knew about beforehand. I wished I could have said Guido was in one, too, and we just had to fly, but they knew better, so Tonya and I had to finish the tea.

The gent of the house asked me into his den to look over his medals and ribbons while the ladies stayed chatting in the kitchen. I gave the right mutterings of being impressed though I had no clue what medal was for what act of valour, if any. He did offer me a glass of fine scotch, and we took ourselves to the plump cottage furniture by the fireplace, me with scotch, he still with teacup. As I began to sit, I noticed a gigantic painting of all people, William of Orange seated upon a rearing horse, sword in hand and what looked like little Irish people running for dear life to escape the sword and horse's hooves. OH MY. I was gaped-jawed as I sat down with me drink halfway to me gob hole. Me eyes were riveted on the man on horseback. I was lucky I didn't spill it down me shirt front and onto the overstuffed chairs. More so, I didn't run out of the room yelling for dear life! - Kidding.

Mr. English Person cleared his throat in a mannerly fashion and addressed me as he noticed me finally getting glass to gob hole and staring at King Willie upon his rearing white horse.

"Splendid painting of King William, don't you agree?"

I squinted me eyes and looked at Willie, prince of darkness, realising this was who he named his son after in all probability. I made a sound with me mouth full of scotch as if in answer, which was non-committal, I hoped, but I said with a swig of scotch in me mouth, "Fecking bloody gobshite." I was tempted to swig back the whole glass and ask for another; it was that kind of reaction that I was in the home of someone with little regard for my Irish feelings. 

"Know anyone back in Northern Ireland to be mixed up in that mess?" He asked.

"Uh . . . what mess be that?" I knew perfectly well where we were going. I knew the mess, and here it was in me face.

He waved his hand, "You know that annual mess that goes on, people overreacting and such."

Overreacting and such? I was taken aback. To antagonise him, I said, "Yes, yes, that bloody fist fighting, rock and bottle throwing, shouting, and Jaysus knows what else when one group of festive parade goers parades through someone else's parade ground. Oh, those Irish will never learn! Tsk, tsk." And I shook me head like it was a tragedy. "I heard of a guy who was arrested in a car park as he was going to his motor, and he hadn't been doing a thing and wasn't near the ruckus, but because he was nearby, the police took him to Hydebank detention centre. You know where that be?" I asked.

"Oh yes, yes, it is in South Belfast." He said his focus was like a Rottweiler on yours truly. And this reaction and knowledge made me 100% sure I was in the living room of someone who detested my race.

"Well, seems he didn't seem to have mooch ta say so the next day they threw him in the Antrim Interrogation Centre for more questioning and well . . . nothing was forthcoming. So they decided, and I tink you'll like dis part, they passed special legislation to interrogate him for six more days! Doesn't that just beat all?" And I laughed.

"Jolly good!" he said, forgetting himself.

I drained me glass, looking over its rim at him.

He didn't know what to say for a moment and fiddled with the material on his trouser leg, just unsure about me. Then, a bit disconcerted about what I said, he chirped up.

"Real IRA, I am sure, hey? Those blokes are tight-arses, oh excuse me, ladies, well you know what I mean." He realised the talk in the kitchen had stopped, and the ladies were listening.

I could tell this conversation was bringing out the old war dog in him. He had placed his cup on the pie crust table, which we were told had been in his family for hundreds of years. Without thinking, he had neglected the saucer in his lap, which could leave one hell of a white ring on that old antique. So my wife commiserated later.

"Uh . . . no loyalist. The other side." I said chipper meself.

"Oh . . . oh . . . " THAT was new and unheard of. "I thought . . . "

"That he was a Catlick? I know everyone always tinks thot." And I shook me head like what was the world coming to, even worse the Police Service of Northern Ireland. Hum, too many Catholics joining the force?

Tonya gulped down her tea at that and ended the tea party. I be sure our "wee conversation" could have got quite a bit more interesting, but alas, Tonya put an end to it. She was so afraid I would have gone on. I had caught meself, so not to worry, I was searching in me brain for an excuse to leave as it were.

"We aren't inviting them to our house, are we? I mean, MUST we? He knew ahead that the McGees and I were from Ireland, yet he had that awful painting hanging where any of us could see." I was just making sure Tonya knew what had upset me.

"No, I really think that was enough." She said.

"Well, turn about be fair play. We could invite them and redecorate the house just for the occasion. You know, invite them for some fine Irish whiskey and a few toasts to Michael Collins. I wonder where I can get a really large picture of Collins and de Valera shaking hands to put over me mantle. I should ring up the parental units, have them scout that up, and send it on over." I was joking, I even told Tonya if push came to shove, we'd drape the windows in the greenest, most shamrock-patterned curtains we could find, get an oversized tri-colour out front, and I'd order a slew of ceramic leprechauns to put about the place.

She did laugh at me joke, but we silently wondered what Mr. English Person in particular would think if that were the case. I didn't know he'd set foot inside the door, just from the flag alone, but Tonya thought his curiosity would get the best of him. Well, we aren't going to find out. I don't trust meself to wallow on the bottom level again. Though we'd invite the McGees over sans the Irish paraphernalia. Tonya thought they were brighter than yours truly. She is most positive they felt the undercurrent and decided not to engage but act like their guests expected. Clueless. It could very well be.

Gabe
Copyright © 2013 All rights reserved